Rooftops
by eliska
Summary: Some days, they would climb up to the rooftops and peek down at the world below, with nothing but a pack of Marlboros between them. Kenny/Craig. Oneshot.


A/N: Happy Birthday! You know who you are :)

And yes, the last part does refer to 'Ashburn,' in a way. Just thought I'd like to point that out. And I have no shit idea about cigarettes at all, so all brands that have appeared have been chosen at random.

Constructive criticism, please~

Disclaimer: Would I write this if I owned? Noooo….

-r o o f t o p s-

"Hey, mind if you help a bit here?" Craig sounded distinctly irritated as he reached for Kenny's outstretched hand. "My leg's acting up again. Fucking stairs."

"Mm." Using his full strength—which wasn't very much—the blond managed to hoist him up to the red-tiled roof. Grunting with some effort, Craig plopped down next to him without a word of thanks. Kenny didn't care; it was who he was, and what they did almost every day. He'd gotten used to the other teen's brusque ways a long time ago; the others still hated him for being a complete dick and flipping them off every time they turned around.

But they didn't have **this**.

_If they did, they would know,_ he thought. It didn't really matter what they thought, in any case, because Kenny was never one to be bothered with their misgivings. At least, that held true when he was with his usual friends; he was always the quiet one, occasionally joining in the name-calling when Kyle and Cartman bickered and staying over at their houses for video games and sleepovers—but there was never any change. He was their friend, many of those times _just_ 'their friend'. No more, no less.

And sometimes, slowly, he started resenting it. He didn't care if they asked him over to have fun fewer times than they did themselves, but the sheer fact that nobody _cared—_it hurt, and even though he thought he most likely deserved it, the pain was no less.

He met Craig on the roof one day when he sneaked out to get a breath of fresh air.

They'd stared at each other for about a minute, since Craig just couldn't compute out of shock and Kenny wondered why the hell there would be someone else up there at that time of the day. He considered it an impossible miracle when, after the awkward silence had passed, the corners of Craig's lips twitched amusedly. The black-haired boy held out his pack of Camel Lights towards him encouragingly.

"Want one?"

"A wha—?"

"I know what it feels like," he said. "I mean, what it feels like down there. Up here, it's so fucking much better. Don't you think so? Here, I'll light it for you."

It wasn't the first time Kenny had smoked, but he wondered all the same if Craig had put some sort of poison into the cigarette; after all, they weren't close. Not yet. The blond sat down next to him, unsure of what to say next. Noticing his obvious discomfort, Craig smiled inwardly; he pointed downwards. "See there? You can't really describe it, can you?"

Kenny followed his motion, nodding absentmindedly. He didn't see anything of interest down there; dogs peeing on hydrants, people yelling at each other on the cracking asphalt, giant guinea pigs running amok amidst the quiet little mountain town—all typical South Park. What was there to see?

One never sees at the beginning of things. He would come to realize that, and _see_ what Craig saw then. Practice may never make perfect, but what the hell. It was the view at the end that made everything worth it. And everyone

(he knew they would not see)

saw something different. Choice wasn't the matter; it was and would never be. He knew but couldn't tell, because nobody would listen. Kenny had always been a person to want to tell others what exactly he wanted them to feel, a poet in some ways; but he was never verbal enough to say them out loud. No, not while his friends were immersed in other things, video games and chicks and sports that he knew he would never get because of who he was.

And for once in his life, he didn't give a damn.

Now, as they sat in the cooling breeze of the early evening—with Craig rubbing his leg and muttering 'fuck' every time he accidentally hit the sore spot—Kenny looked over his head at the rising mountains in the distance. Turning around would set his eyes to the fields that ran for several miles before stopping at the base of the Rockies, and to either sides were the houses and other buildings nestled into the township of South Park. It wasn't picturesque—hell, with rabid turkeys and wacko doctors running around—but it was _here_. Here and in the present. Craig had taught him to stop caring _that fucking much_ about the trivial things that he'd always had on his mind, and focus on the now.

_You never know when you'll lose it, y'know? So you better fucking appreciate it now, or it might be gone in an instant. You hear me?_

Sometimes, though not often, he caught the other teen staring off into the distance; with a dangerously burning cig between his fingers, unaware and uncaring of the world around or before him. Kenny never disturbed him then, for it would be an inerasable sin to do so; it was inevitable to break down and cross one's own rules at certain times, and that was no big deal on the wondrous and huge stage we all call life.

He said it shouldn't matter if you were a social outcast or a poor kid or a black kid living in the ghetto. He'd fought and rebelled and ran away from many things before, but not from this. This was different, the kind of different that was not the difference between a carrot and a whale but the kind of different between an opened or closed box. Like the first time they talked, Kenny didn't get it. But the blond didn't care; like the first time, it would come to him. And if he had a pack to go with the thought, it was all the better.

It was a strange, strange thing how much a cigarette could do for the two of them.

They were into Marlboro Flavor Plus now, and Craig always kept a spare pack in the back of his jeans in case they stayed up there too long. Sometimes they would skip the day off altogether, meeting up on the roof at exactly eight in the morning. Stan and Kyle would ask him occasionally where he disappeared to, but Kenny always thought they were too busy screwing each other to care.

Hell, he _liked_ having Craig up there with him; just the two of them, social rejects—although not completely like Scott Malkinson—who just wouldn't bring themselves to give a fuck anymore. From time to time Kenny wondered if Craig cared about _him_, poor white trash and all. Several days ago he had summoned up the courage to ask, and the other teen glowered at him in response.

"No, I don't give a shit about anyone. Didn't I tell you before?" A pause. "Or maybe I didn't. Huh."

The blond had nodded in return, contemplating the response and the minuscule, inconspicuous smirk that followed. _He probably does, if only a little._

_And someday, I'd like to tell you that, fuck everyone else, I care… too._

For now, Craig was lying on the warm, prickly tiles, the smoke from his cigarette curling up in the air lazily. He was facing upward, and Kenny couldn't tell his expression. By a somewhat warped point of view, the blond guessed he knew what he was thinking about. Intruding was not an option, but it was an inevitable and unexplainable truth. _Now_ was the time to relish what little love he could embrace; once they got down from the rooftops, from the closure and intimacy of two hearts, things change. Replacements happen down there, but the peace up here was not to be disturbed.

He turned and watched a bald eagle wing past and vanish into the endless trees, thinking, _how can there ever be a 'too long' for this?_

-f i n-


End file.
